Henry arrived on the following day and was shown straight into Sir
William’s study.
Half an hour later Sir William rang the bell and sent for Lady Heritage.
He hardly gave her time to shake hands before he burst out:
“I said you must be told. I take all responsibility for your being told.
After all, if I am conducting these experiments, something is due to me,
though the Government appear to think otherwise. But I take all
responsibility; I insist on your being told.”
He sat at his littered table, and all the time that he was speaking his
hands were lifting and shuffling the papers on it. At his elbow stood a
tray with tantalus and glasses and a syphon. Only one glass had been
used.
“What is it?” said Raymond.
Her eyes went from her father to Henry.
Sir William’s hand was shaking. Henry wore a look of grave concern.
“What is it?” she repeated.
“It’s Formula ‘A’”—Sir William’s voice was just a deep growl. “He comes
here, and he tells me that Formula ‘A’ has been stolen. I’ve told him to
his face, and I tell him again, that it’s a damned impossibility.”
The shaking hand fell heavily upon the table and made the glasses ring.
“Formula ‘A’?” said Raymond—“stolen? Henry, you can’t mean it?”
“I’m afraid I do,” said Henry, at his quietest. “I’m afraid there’s no
doubt about it. We have the most indisputable evidence that Formula ‘A’
has been offered to—well, to a foreign power.”
The flush upon Sir William’s face deepened alarmingly. Under the
bristling grey brows his eyes were hard with anger. He began to speak,
broke off, swept his papers to one side, and, taking up the tantalus and
the used glass, poured out a third of a glass of whisky. He let a small
quantity of soda into it with a vicious jerk, and then sat with the
glass between his hands, alternately sipping from it and interjecting
sounds of angry protest.
“The information is, I’m afraid, correct.”
Henry’s tone, though studiously moderate, was extremely firm. “There is
undoubtedly a leak, and, in view of Formula ‘B,’ it is vital that the
leak should be found and stopped.”
He addressed himself to Lady Heritage:
“Sir William tells me that all employés correspond with the list in my
possession, that none of them leave the enclosure, and that all letters
are censored. By the way, who censors them?”
“Ember,” growled Sir William.
Lady Heritage elaborated the remark.
“Mr. Ember—Father’s secretary.”
She and Henry were both standing, with the corner of the writing-table
between them. She saw inquiry in Henry’s face. He said:
“Who does leave the premises?”
“Father, once in a blue moon, I when I have any shopping to do, and, of
course, Mr. Ember.”
“And when you go you drive, of course? What I mean is—a chauffeur goes
too?”
Sir William made a sound between a snort and a laugh; Lady Heritage
smiled. Both had the air of being pleased to catch Henry out.
“The chauffeur is Lewis, who was your uncle’s coachman here for
twenty-five years. Are you going to suggest that he has been selling
Formula ‘A’ to a foreign power? I’m afraid you must think again.”
“Who is Mr. Ember?”
Sir William exploded.
“Ember’s my secretary. He’s been my right hand for ten years, and if
you’re going to make insinuations about him, you can leave my house and
make them elsewhere. Why, damn it all, March!—why not accuse Raymond, or
me?”
“I don’t accuse any one, sir.”
There was a pause, whilst the two men looked at one another. It was Sir
William who looked away at last. He drained his glass and got up,
pushing his chair so hard that it overturned.
“You want to see all the men to check ’em by that infernal list of
yours, do you? The sooner the better then; let’s get it over.”
Later, as the men answered to their names in the long, bare room which
had once been the Blue Parlour, Henry was struck with the strangeness of
the scene. Here his aunt had loved to sit doing an interminable
embroidery of fruits and flowers upon canvas. Here he and Anthony had
lain prone before the fire, each with his head in a book and his heels
waving aloft. Memories of Fenimore Cooper and Henty filled the place
when for a moment he closed his eyes. Then, as they opened, there was
the room all bare, the windows barred and uncurtained, the long
stretcher tables with their paraphernalia of glass retorts, queer,
twisted apparatus, powerful electric appliances, and this row of men
answering to their names whilst he checked each from his list.
“James Mallaby.” He called the name and glanced from the man who
answered it to the paper in his hand. A small photograph was followed by
a description: “5 feet 7 inches, grey eyes, mole on chin, fair
complexion, sandy hair.” All correct. He passed to the next.
“Jacob Moss—5 feet 5 inches, dark complexion, black hair and eyes, no
marks....”
“George Patterson—5 feet 10 inches, sallow complexion, brown hair and
beard, grey on temples, grey eyes, scar....”
The man who answered to the name of George Patterson stepped forward. He
had the air of being taller than his scheduled height. His beard and
hair were unkempt, and the scar set down against him was a red seam that
ran from the left temple to the chin, where it lost itself in grizzled
hair. He stooped, and walked with a dragging step.
Henry, who for the moment was speaking to Sir William, looked at him
casually enough. He opened his list, and in turning the page, the papers
slipped from his hand and fell. George Patterson picked them up. Henry
went on to the next name.
Jane had keyed herself up to meeting him at teatime, but neither Henry
nor Sir William appeared.
“Captain March is an extremely conscientious person,” said Lady
Heritage. It was not a trait which appeared to commend itself to her. “I
should think he must have interviewed the very black-beetles by now.
Have you been passed, Jeffrey?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Ember, “but it hasn’t taken away my appetite
for tea.”
In fact it had not. It was Raymond who ate nothing.
Jane and Henry did not meet until dinner-time. As she dressed, Jane kept
looking at herself in the glass. She was pale, and she must not look
pale. She took a towel and rubbed her cheeks—that was better. Then a
little later, when she looked again, her eyes were far too bright, her
face unnaturally flushed.
“As if any one was going to look at you at all—idiot!” she said.
After this she kept her back to the mirror.
In all the books that she had ever read the secretary or companion
invariably wore a dinner dress of black silk made, preferably, out of
one which had belonged to a grandmother or some even more remote
relative. In this garb she outshone all the other women and annexed the
affections of at least two of the most eligible men.
Renata did not possess a black silk gown.
“Thank goodness, for I should look perfectly awful in it,” was Jane’s
thought.
With almost equal distaste she viewed the white muslin sacred to
prize-givings and school concerts. Attired in this garment Renata had
played the “Sonata Pathétique” amidst the applause of boarders and
parents. With this pale blue sash about her waist she had recited “How
they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.” Jane tied it in a vicious
knot. Her only comfort as she went downstairs was that it was impossible
to look more like a schoolgirl and less like a conspirator.
Sir William and Henry were in the hall—Mr. Ember too, close to the fire
as usual.
Sir William jerked his head in Jane’s direction and grunted, “Miss
Molloy, my daughter’s secretary.” Henry bowed. Jane inclined her head.
Next moment they all turned to watch Raymond Heritage come down the
stair.
She wore black velvet. Her neck and arms were bare. A long rope of
pearls fell to her knee.
Jane wondered whether the world held another woman so beautiful, then
looked quickly at Henry, and the same thought was visible upon Henry’s
face.
Dinner was not a cheerful meal. Lady Heritage hardly opened her lips.
Sir William sat hunched forward over the table; when addressed, the
remark had to be repeated before he answered; he drank a good deal.
Jane considered that a modest silence became her, and the conversation
was sustained with some effect of strain by Captain March and Mr. Ember.
They talked fitfully of politics, musical comedy, the weather, and the
American Exchange.
It was a relief, to Jane at least, when she and Lady Heritage found
their way to the drawing-room.
Henry wondered at their using this large, formal room for so small a
party. His aunt, he remembered, had kept it shut up for the most part.
The sense of space was, however, grateful to Jane. The small circle of
candlelight in the dining-room had seemed to shut them in, forcing an
intimacy for which no one of them was prepared.
The Yellow Drawing-Room was a very stately apartment. The walls were
hung with a Chinese damask which a hundred years had not robbed of its
imperial colour. Beneath their pagoda-patterned blue linen covers Jane
knew that the chairs and sofas wore a stiff yellow satin like a secret
pride. Electric candles in elaborate sconces threw a cold, steady light
upon the scene.
Lady Heritage sat by the fire, the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ in her hand.
Her eyes were on the page and never left it, but she was not reading. In
fifteen minutes her glance had not shifted, and the page remained
unturned.
Then the door opened, and the two younger men came in. Lady Heritage
looked up for a moment, and then went back to her _Revue_. She made no
attempt to entertain Captain March, who, for his part, showed some
desire to be entertained.
“You are using the big rooms, I see. Aunt Mary always said they were too
cold. You remember she always sat in the Blue Parlour, or the little oak
room at the head of the stair.”
Raymond’s lip lifted slightly.
“I’m afraid the Blue Parlour would not be very comfortable now,” she
said without looking up.
Henry possessed a persevering nature. He produced, in rapid succession,
a remark about the weather, an inquiry as to the productiveness of the
kitchen garden, and a comment upon the pleasant warmth of the log fire.
The first and last of these efforts elicited no reply at all. To the
question about the garden produce Lady Heritage answered that she had no
idea.
Mr. Ember’s habitual expression of cynicism became a trifle more marked.
Jane had the feeling that the pressure in the atmosphere was steadily on
the increase.
“Won’t you sing something, Raymond,” said Henry. His pleasant ease of
manner appeared quite impervious to snubs.
Lady Heritage closed the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ and, for the first
time, looked full at Captain March. If he was startled by the furious
resentment of that gaze he did not show it.
“And what do you expect me to sing, Henry?” she said—“the latest out of
the _Jazz Girls_?”
“I don’t mind; whatever you like, but do sing, won’t you?”
Raymond got up with an abrupt movement. Walking to one of the long
windows which opened upon the terrace, she drew the heavy yellow brocade
curtain back with a jerk. Beyond the glass the terrace lay in deepest
shadow, but moonlight touched the sea. She bent, drew the bolt, and
opened half the door.
“The room is stifling,” she said. “Jeffrey, it’s your fault they pile
the fire up so. I wish you’d sometimes look at a calendar and realise
that this is April, not January.”
Then, turning, she crossed to the piano.
“If I sing, it will be to please myself, and I shall probably not please
any one else.”
Ember came forward and opened the piano. He bent as he did so, and said
a few words very low. She answered him.
Henry, left by the fireside with Jane, leaned forward conversationally,
the last _Punch_ in his hand.
“This is a good cartoon,” he said. “Have you seen it, Miss Molloy?”
And as she bent to look at the page, he added in that low, effaced tone
which does not carry a yard:
“Which room have they given you?”
“I like the line,” said Jane in her clear voice, “and that very black
shadow.” Then, in an almost soundless breath—“The end room, south wing.”
“Don’t go to bed,” said Henry. “Wonderful how they keep it up, week
after week. I mean to say, it must put you off your stroke like
anything, knowing you’ve got to come right up to time like that.”
“Your department doesn’t work by the calendar, then? You don’t have to
bother about results?”
Ember strolled back to his favourite place by the fire as he spoke, and
Lady Heritage broke into a resounding chord. She played what Henry
afterwards described as “an infernal pandemonium of a thing.” It
appeared to be in several keys at once, and marched from one riot of
discord to another until it ended with a strident crash which set up a
humming jangle of vibrations.
“Like that, Henry?” said Lady Heritage.
“No,” said Henry, monosyllabic in his turn.
“No one ever likes to hear the truth,” said Raymond. “You all want
something pleasant, something smooth, something like this”—her fingers
slipped into the “Blue Danube” waltz. She played it exquisitely, with a
melting delicacy of touch and a beautiful sense of rhythm. After a dozen
bars or so she stopped suddenly, leaned her elbow on the keyboard, and
through the little clang of the impact said:
“Well?”
“That’s topping,” said Henry. He looked across at her admiringly—the
long sweep of the ebony piano, the white keyboard with the black notes
standing clear, Raymond in her velvet and pearls, and behind her the
imperial yellow of China.
“Soothing syrup,” she said. “You’re not up to date, Henry, I’m afraid.
The moderns show us things as they are, and we don’t like it, but the
soothing syrups lose their power to soothe once you find out that they
are just ... dope.”
“I wish you’d sing,” said Henry.
She looked across him at Ember, and an expression difficult to define
hardened her face.
“This isn’t modern, but will you like it?” she said, and preluded. Then
she began to sing in a deep mezzo:
“The Worldly Hope Men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face
Lighting its little Hour or two—is gone.
Here in this battered Caravanserai,
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his Way.”
The notes came heavy and tragic. In her voice there seemed to be
gathered all the tragedy, all the emotion of human life. The sound fell
almost to a whisper:
“The Worldly Hope Men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face
Lighting its little Hour or two—is gone.”
Suddenly the voice rose ringing like a trumpet, a great chord crashed
out:
“Waste not your Hour!”
The deep octaves followed. Then she passed into modulating phrases and
began to sing again.
“Her voice is nearly as beautiful as she is,” thought Jane, “but
somehow—she shakes one.”
“Ah Love, could you and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits, and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire?”
With the last word she rose, turned from the piano and the room, and
went out to the terrace.
Henry got up, strolled casually across the room, and followed her. She
was standing by the low parapet looking over the sea. The night was
still, the scent of hyacinths was heavy on the air, but every now and
then a breath—something not to be called a wind—came up from across the
water and brought with it cold, and a tang of salt.
The moon was still behind the house, but near to clearing it, and though
they stood in the dusk, Henry could see Lady Heritage’s features as
though through a veil.
Her icy mood was broken; the tears were rolling down her cheeks. She
turned on him with a flame of anger.
“Why did you come? Why did you come? Do you know what Father said to me
yesterday? I said I wouldn’t have you here, and he said—he said, ‘Good
heaven! how can I keep the man away from what is practically his own
house?’ Is it yours now?—have you come to see your property?”
Henry looked at her gravely.
“No, it is not mine yet,” he said, “and I came for a very different
reason, as I think you know.”
“And you expected me to welcome you ... as if it wasn’t enough to be
here, to live here—without——” She broke off, gripping the rough stone of
the parapet with both hands. “You ask me why I don’t use the Oak Room—do
you forget how you and I and Tony used to roast chestnuts there, and
tell ghost stories—till we were afraid to go to bed? If there were no
worse ghosts than those.... Do you know, every time you come into the
room I expect to see Anthony behind you, and when you speak I catch
myself listening for his voice?... Do you still wonder why I don’t use
the Oak Room? What are men made of?”
“I don’t know,” said Henry. “Did I hurt you, Raymond? I’m sorry if I
did, but it wasn’t meant.”
She sank down upon the parapet. All the vehemence went out of her.
“You see,” she said in a whispering voice—“you see, I can’t forget. God
knows how hard I’ve tried. Every one else has forgotten, but I can’t
forget. If I could, I should sleep—but I can’t. Henry, have you ever
tried very hard to forget anything?”
“Yes,” said Henry.
“Will you tell me what it was?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Oh well, it doesn’t matter, and if you really understand, you know that
the more one tries the more vivid it all becomes.”
“It’s Tony?” asked Henry.
“Yes, it’s Tony,” said Raymond, in an odd voice—“but it’s not because
he’s dead—I don’t want you to think that. I could have borne that; I
could have borne anything if I could have seen him once again, or if he
had known that I cared, but he went away in anger and he never knew.”
“I didn’t know,” said Henry—“I’m sorry.”
Lady Heritage looked away across the sea. The moonlight showed where the
jagged line of rocks cut sharp through the sleeping water.
“There’s a verse in the Bible—do you ever read the Bible, Henry? I
don’t, but I remember this verse; one was taught it as a child. ‘Let not
the sun go down upon your wrath.’ I let the moon rise and go down on
mine.” She spoke very, very quietly. “Anthony stood there, just by that
urn. He said, ‘You’ll have all the rest of your life to be sorry in....’
That was the last thing he said to me. He never forgave, and he never
wrote. I didn’t think any man would let me go so easily, so I married
John Heritage to show that I didn’t care. And, whilst we were on our
honeymoon, I saw Anthony’s name in the list of missing. Now, do you
wonder that I hate you for coming here, and for being alive, and taking
Tony’s place? And do you wonder that there are times when I hate
everything so much that I’d like well enough to see this whole sorry
scheme shattered to bits—if it could be done?”
“I’m not so keen on this shattering business, Raymond,” said Henry.
“Don’t you think there’s been about enough of it? There are a lot of
rotten things, and a lot of good things, and they’re all mixed up. If
you start shattering, the odds are you bring down everything together.”
“Well?” said Raymond, just one word, cold and still.
There was a little pause. Then she laughed.
“Is Henry also among the preachers?” she said mockingly. “You should
take Orders; a surplice would be becoming.”
Henry was annoyed to feel that he was flushing.
“Shall I go on preaching?” he said, and as he spoke, Mr. Ember came
through the open glass door with a cloak over his arm.
“I am a relief expedition,” he announced. “You must be frozen. Never
trust a moonlight night.”
He put the wrap about Raymond’s shoulders, but she did not fasten it.
“I’m coming in,” she said.
She and Ember passed into the lighted room. Henry stood still for a
minute, listened acutely; then he followed them.
There was a hedge of stiffly growing veronica bushes at the foot of the
terrace wall. After Henry had gone in, the man called George Patterson
came out from behind the bushes at the far end of the terrace. He walked
slowly with a dragging step, keeping in the shadow of the house, and he
made his way to the far end of the north wing.
Inside the Yellow Drawing-Room Henry was bidding his hostess good-night,
and announcing his intention of taking a moonlight stroll.
Presently he emerged upon the terrace, descended the steps on the right,
and made his way in the direction taken by George Patterson.